


you always seem to bring the light

by releasetheglitch



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Body Worship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tickling, Trust, bottom!Bond, top!Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 01:58:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7462203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/releasetheglitch/pseuds/releasetheglitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I know,” said Q. “Don’t worry about it, alright? Just lie back and let me take care of everything.”</i>
</p>
<p>In which Q shows Bond the finer things in life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you always seem to bring the light

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for the 007 games' Porn Prompt Saturday! This one was:  
>  _Bond, tickling, trust_
> 
> Hope you enjoy <3

Bond returned from Russia on a Thursday night, battered and hankering for a nice shag and a mouthful of whisky before he passed out.

He himself had never felt any particular sentiment, positive or negative, about the state of his body. Silvery, raised lines earned from knife fights, more jagged cuts leftover from torture, from when kidnappers decided to be creative— a serrated blade dragged on the skin, rather than slicing neatly across it. Car crashes and surgeries, crooked nose from schoolyard fights at Eton. And of course, the most memorable addition to his collection: the puckered, red starburst from Moneypenny’s sniper rifle.

It never bore thinking about. There was always another mission, another target to seduce for Queen and Country. A lifetime of assassination didn’t lend itself to introspection. Sure, once in a while, a bedmate would run their fingers over a scar. Never the puckered, twisted ones that left shrapnel in his flesh, James noticed. But they would sigh over the barely visible echoes of a stab wound. Run their lips across his skin, perhaps, and imagine scenarios where he was the noble prince, come to steal them away from a lifetime of mediocrity. The irony never failed to amuse him.

Not that there had been any new bedmates for a while, and the reason for that was one of the few things that still managed to break through his impassive mask.

Bond had always preferred dangerous women, but he thought that he’d met his match in Q. Q did not feel the need to posture, to intimidate through posh labels and physical might. Q’s was a quiet danger that simmered beneath the surface of a pleasant smile. He did not make threats; he simply destroyed, all the while clad in his fuzziest pair of pajamas. Bond no longer trusted most people to watch his back, but something about Q’s honest brutality made Bond relax around him.

Tonight, Bond checked in at MI6 and immediately hailed a cab for home. And that was another thing that had changed. Home was no longer a string of hotel suites or sterile, million-pound flats. Home was now Q’s cramped little space that always smelled of cats, despite the man’s insistence that he was far too busy to keep a pet, and strangely grandpa-ish decor.

Bond rubbed his neck, absent-minded. There was a livid ring around his throat, courtesy of a terrorist who specialized in garroting his victims. At least it had stopped bleeding. Blood was a bitch to get out of upholstery, and this driver seemed to be a nice sort, chattering cheerfully about his lovely wife and their three young ones, ignoring his passenger’s black eye and split lip. Bond made sure to tip him extra.

This late at night, the street was long-silent. The sliver of moon in the sky his only witness as he climbed out of the cab, wincing as his knees protested. It was easy to find Q’s flat— _their flat_ , a small voice in his head whispered, and he shook it away. He liked Q, liked living with him, and liked the things they did together. Anything else was a promise he could not keep.

Still, the cheerful lights in Q’s flat made him smile. He kept all the lights on on nights Bond came home. Sometimes Bond would simply stand on the streets for a while and watch the warm glow, drawing him in like a beacon. Bond wondered which room Q was in now. If he was already in bed, or on his tablet watching period dramas that he thought Bond didn’t know about. He wouldn’t call the lights a _comfort_ , per se. Such things were for mewling children, scared of the thing under their bed. And Bond _was_ the monster under the bed, as far as most people were concerned.

Not Q, though. Never Q.

He inched the front door open, and was instantly assaulted with heat—Q suffered from cold extremities—and, was that the scent of rose petals? Sure enough, a trail of petals led from the front door to the bedroom. In his addled, post-mission state, he blinked and the petals turned into bloodstains on the hardwood.

“Q?” he called, inexplicably worried, despite every shred of logic telling him that it was fine, he was safe, the enemy did not follow him home.

“In here!” Q did not sound injured, and Bond’s fight/flight instincts relaxed incrementally. He could even see the romance of the situation now. It was sweet of Q to lay out the flowers, to offer him this little bit of innocence as if they were two normal, undamaged people. Pointless, though. He was much too tired tonight to fuck Q.

Still, it seemed like Q really had gone all out for him. The boffin was clad only in a pair of tight, black briefs that did nothing to hide the bulge of his member, waiting on the bed with legs crossed. Sure enough, James saw the tablet buried under Q’s pillow, but refrained from making a comment. He’d changed the bedsheets too, from crisp cotton to dark silk that matched the heat in his eyes. So James just smiled and ignored his screaming muscles to stand at Q’s head, kissing him deeply. He’d probably not get off, but he wasn’t tired enough to leave a lover dissatisfied.

Q pulled back, and his bright grin turned into a frown when he took in James’ blackened eye and torn suit. “Bathroom, now.”

“I’ve already showered,” James protested. A minute long jet of freezing water blasting over his skin in the MI6 stalls counted, only just. And judging from Q’s knowing expression, he knew exactly what James meant. “You complain enough times about smelling exhaust fumes on me that I’ve learned to take a hint.”

“So you shower and put your filthy clothes back on? Brilliant idea,” Q snorted, but his hands were gentle where they unbuttoned James’ suit. The expensive fabric fell to the ground with a muffled thump, and something fond stirred in James’ heart. There were people who’d go insane over such treatment of a Savile Row jacket. Q only cared about James.

Q winced when he saw the wound on Bond’s neck. It’d been over twelve hours—the bruising must have set in already. “What happened here?”

Bond shrugged, letting Q cluck disapprovingly. “My tailor took exception to my callous destruction of his work.”

“I ought to take notes. God knows you have just as little concern for my equipment.” Bond rolled his eyes, accepting the familiar dig with grace. If Q wanted to shag, he’d better hurry up about it, instead of fussing over superficial scrapes. He reached for his own tie, intending to rip it off, but Q stopped him with a touch. Bond let himself be guided onto the bed, brows furrowing. Why was Q taking such care? Bond had assumed he wanted it rough, same as usual, but maybe this was what the flowers and silk sheets were about. Romance. Chocolates and champagne and candlelight.

“Q, I’m rather tired…” he said gently, trying to ease the blow.

His confusion only grew when Q kissed him, this one softer and slower than the ‘welcome home’ kiss they’d shared. “I know,” said Q. “Don’t worry about it, alright? Just lie back and let me take care of everything.”

So Bond let Q peel away his layers with gentle hands, not saying a word as more and more of his skin was revealed. He only tried to touch Q once, laying a palm across the center of Q’s chest, but Q simply pulled back and shook his head. Bond knew that he should just relax, close his eyes, take a moment for himself to breathe and enjoy the familiarity of Q’s touch, but his own fingers itched with the need to do something.

Bond was the one who seduced and took control. His pleasure was always secondary to the purpose of the mission, the wives of politicians and arms dealers alike whose secrets unfolded under the attentions of a man who saw them much more clearly than their husbands did. To have his seduction turned on him was disorienting, to say the least.

Disorienting, but nice. Q’s fingers played his body as deftly as they did a machine gun or a motorcycle, massaging away knots in the small of his back and soothing bruises with a gentle touch.

He didn’t notice his eyes drifting closed, but felt them spring open at the first press of fingers to his arse.

“No,” he said, scrambling up. The comforting haze dissipated from his body and the dirty, heavy ache returned once again. No, James Bond did not—they’d never—

“It’s alright,” said Q, calm and unflappable as always. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want. It’s just that it can feel quite nice, if you wanted to try it for once.”

“I don’t.”

“Alright.” Q kissed his shoulder and returned to his ministrations without a fuss. But the pleasant, mind-numbing pleasure of Q’s massage was gone. Now that he’d brought it up, Bond couldn’t stop the images that flooded his mind. He recalls each of Q’s faces as he’d pounded into him; wide and dazed and lust-addled. He’d never questioned it before, but privately, he’d always wondered how getting buggered up the arse could make a man look so damn pleased.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “What does it feel like?”

Q hummed. “Full. A little uncomfortable at first, but once you’re stretched, and once he hits your prostate…”

The bloody prostate. A little bundle of nerves that turn Q into a pile of adoring goo every time. Alright, Bond did have to admit that the prostate seemed quite stupendous. It was only the matter of its location.

“Perhaps,” Bond started, choosing his words with care. “As an experiment, of course—purely out of curiosity—“

If he turned around, he knew that he would see Q grinning at him like the proverbial fox who caught the canary. “Of course,” he agreed.

“And if I don’t like it, we’ll stop immediately.”

“In a flash,” Q kissed him again, on the back of his nape where Bond has always had a rather sensitive spot. Damn Q for using that against him, the clever minx.

He almost expected Q to just plunge three fingers in—like ripping off a bandage. Instead, Q trails his fingers down Bond’s back and out towards his sides. Bond expected him to stop when he reached the stab wound over his left kidney, but Q traced over the rugged scar with soft fingers. The touch was strange over the puckered flesh; muted, as if he was experiencing it from far away.

The fingers dipped toward his stomach and Bond jerked back with a curse.

“Are you really tickling me?”

Q laughed. “Are you telling me that James Bond, secret agent and bane of M’s existence, is ticklish?”

“No,” said Bond. But the involuntary spasm of his knee when Q wriggled his fingers gave him away.

“Q, I swear—” Bond warned, but got no further when Q suddenly slumped down on top of him, dropping his entire body weight onto James. Small, nipping kisses fell over his shoulders and neck, creating little fluttering sensations on his skin that made him huff out startled breaths that eventually relaxed into deeper breathing.

With a start, he realised that Q had three fingers pumping into him, and judging from the ease with which they moved, they had been there for quite a while. “Sneaky,” Bond chuckled, bearing down to feel the way they stretched open his rim. It didn’t feel particularly good or bad; something he was grateful for. Honestly, it felt like—well, he had very little basis for comparison for things in his arse, so perhaps his judgement was skewed.

“Quartermasters know a few tricks too,” said Q. “I’m sticking it in now, alright?”

“Be my guest,” said Bond, magnanimously.

Even with all that, he still started at the feeling of something blunt pressing against his entrance. James fought the instinct to lash out, to turn over and defend himself, but Q’s touches and his soothing whispers kept him grounded in the moment.

He kept reminding himself that this was Q, that this was the man who’d guided him out of a trick extraction only hours prior, and that Q would not make it a poor experience for him. The feeling of Q’s cock, long and elegant, pressing inch by inch into his body was at once invasive and intimate, overwhelming and loving, and Bond could feel all of his senses unravelling except where Q joined to him.

At about the halfway point, Q stopped.

“Are you lost?” asked James.

Q swatted him. “Don’t be an arse. Are you alright?”

James’ first instinct, as always, was to flash an insincere smile and shrug off the question. But Q’s breaths are hot against his back and his hole is trembling around Q’s cock and everything is strung so wire-thin that he doesn’t have the energy to lie. “Aches a bit, but it’s good.”  

“That’s good. Would you mind if we faced each other?”

Bond considered that. Staring into Q’s eyes, watching them cloud over in lust and half-bitten cries fall from his lips?

“Not at all.”

Q pulled out and Bond flipped over, then Q eased back into him. This time his muscles were a bit sorer, unused as they were to such exertion. But Q noticed and repeated the same half-tickling, half stroking motion over his body, until with one final push, he was buried fully inside.

Bond blinked and breathed out deeply. Q was so beautiful, chest flushed and sweaty and grinning down at Bond like the worst sort of minx. He felt so full, so close to bursting.

Then Q began to move, and Bond threw his head back and moaned.

“You’re so beautiful,” Q whispered, rocking in and out of Bond’s body. “My secret agent. My James.”

James had to swallow to dislodge the lump in his throat that formed at those words. He tried to turn his head away but Q’s arms caged him in, maintaining eye contact and it was so fucking terrifying, feeling his every defense fall away before this brilliant, brilliant boy. Sparks of pleasure danced up his spine every time Q grazed his prostate. He felt safe, loved, even, to be pressed under Q like this.

“This isn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” he admitted, with a raspy laugh.

Q smiled, the gesture both smug and sincere at once. “Of course, you old man. Didn’t I teach you to trust your Quartermaster in all thing?”

“I’ll never doubt you again,” James promised, even as he felt that familiar tightening sensation in his abdomen that meant he was getting close. “Ah—Q—faster, I can take it—”

Q began to pump faster, but Bond, unused to this particular brand of pleasure and overwhelmed as he was, yelled out his release. He could still feel Q moving inside him, even as he clenched obscenely tight, and the sensation only added to the intensity of his release.

At last Q came too, with an airy moan, and Bond closed his eyes and let the afterwaves wash over him. He winced when Q popped out of him, all at once empty and clutching at thin air, but submitted to Q’s gentle kisses while his blood pounded in his ears.

Normally, this would be the part in the night where he fetched his partner washcloths and post-orgasm tea. Or if he was on a mission, murmured sweet nothings into their ear while they spilled secrets of international importance. Now, however, it was Q who eased out of the sheets, who patted their bodies clean while Bond laid in the wreckage of their bed, drowsy and limp. He could feel warm trails of water down his back, over the multitudes of scars and bruises like a baptism. Like a blessing. Like Q.

And Bond fell asleep, dreaming, for once, of nothing.


End file.
